


Stiles Stilinski's Tearable Week

by calciseptine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deliberately Oblivious Stiles, Domestic, Future Fic, M/M, Pack Feels, Puppy Piles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What is this?" Stiles asks Boyd.</p><p>"A shirt," Boyd answers.</p><p>"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Stiles says. "What I mean is, why is there a shirt lying here with my name on it?"</p><p>"I think Derek bought it, to replace the one Isaac ripped." Boyd shrugs again, as though Derek buying Stiles shirts is an everyday occurrence. Then, with a sidelong glance that Stiles cannot interpret, "Don't you like it?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the [Teen Wolf Big Bang](http://teenwolf_bb.livejournal.com/) on lj. Before writing this, I was unaware that I could ramble on about a t-shirt for thirty pages. :| Also available on [tumblr](http://calciseptinefic.tumblr.com/post/39512182782/stiles-stilinskis-tearable-week) and [livejournal](http://calciseptine.livejournal.com/120874.html).
> 
> As usual, I would like to give love to my betas, [faorism](http://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/pseuds/faorism) and [Heather](http://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari). Without their support, willingness to listen to me gripe, and constant cheerleading, none of my silly ideas would ever come to fruition. I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH. ♥
> 
> This story also comes with [some artwork](http://thorin-odinson.tumblr.com/post/39524972178/for-the-teen-wolf-bigbang-had-the-chance-to-draw) and a [fanmix](http://thorin-odinson.tumblr.com/post/39524979626/tearable-a-sterek-fanmix-for-the-amazing), done by the lovely [jadestarboo](http://jadestarboo.tumblr.com/)! She's done a wonderful job and I'm periodically pinch myself to prove that, yes, I am awake.

Stiles spends his Sunday afternoon bargain shopping at the small strip mall on the commercial side of Beacon Hills.

He has already purchased three new plaid button down shirts—all of which were in the chaotic mountain of clearance items—and a Hanes five-pack of white, itchy-but-necessary undershirts, yet what he desperately needs is a new pair of jeans for twenty-one dollars and seventeen cents or less. His luck dwindles as he meanders through the third and final department store; nothing is on sale and all the reduced price items are either far too big or far too small.

After the fifth display proves fruitless, Stiles turns away with heavy sigh. He thinks mournfully of how long he will have to soak his jeans in vinegar to get the bloodstains out (because bloodstains are his life, now) and is so distracted by his macabre thoughts that he almost overlooks the comic-themed graphic tees.

"Oh," Stiles understates, a moment before he falls upon the selection in a giddy fashion that only a true fanboy can. He wrinkles his nose at a Green Lantern à la Ryan Reynolds t-shirt, criticizes a nameless designer's decision to use Bucky Barnes' Captain America costume in an Avengers line-up, and laughs at an over-stylized Flash before he finally comes across the Batman tees. He wants each and every one, which is an impossibility that makes Stiles mourn his lack of buying power. Technically, he could afford one shirt—they're only fifteen dollars apiece—but he's down to a couple pairs of jeans that are neither stained nor very unintentionally distressed.

And, to be completely honest, all the vinegar in the world—and a pinch of willpower voodoo magic—would be unable to save the most recently destroyed ones.

"This is probably for the best," Stiles tells the Golden Age Batman screen print in his hands apologetically. "Someone would probably just bleed on you, anyway."

Stiles refolds the shirt and sets it back down, the cotton edges sloppy in comparison to the rest of the immaculate pile. When the college-aged shop girl by the till practically glares at him from over the top of her _Seventeen_ magazine, more likely than not for his inability to fold clothing crisply and uniformly, Stiles grabs his bags and beats a retreat.

Looks like he has to go to Wal-Mart.

Again.

.

Truthfully, only half of Stiles' wardrobe has gone the way of irremovable stains: mostly blood, sometimes the black goo that is werewolf vomit, occasionally inexplicably intense grass stains, and once a substance that bonded on a seemingly molecular level to his favorite Threadless t-shirt. The other half of said wardrobe has been shredded by overeager claws, stretched by overenthusiastic alphas, burned by all manner of overdone potions and salves, and otherwise over-verbed by various nouns.

(One time during the spring of junior year, a hunter goon had a fist in the back of Stiles' lacrosse jersey and, in order to get away, Stiles had relaxed all of his muscles to slip out of said jersey. He noodled his way free of the other man's grip, and his own clothing, in a manner that made Stiles' inner temper-tantrum throwing three-year-old immensely proud. It had been a victory until Stiles realized he was running around half-naked in the middle of February and it was very, very cold out.)

The point is, having a spontaneously decreasing supply of things to wear is a strange and unexpected side effect of hanging out with werewolves on a regular basis. Compared with being in a constant roller coaster of terrifying supernatural events—being kidnapped by hunters, fighting off a quintet of 'I will pick my teeth with your bones' alphas, being threatened by rival packs and mentally unstable witches—interspersed with periods of (relatively) boring calm, Stiles figures that replacing his clothes every now and then is low on the totem pole of werewolf-related problems.

Nevertheless, this does not stop Stiles from complaining about it.

"Do you even know how much a good pair of jeans goes for nowadays?" Stiles gripes. He managed to find a not-so-terrible pair of black jeans at Wal-Mart; they're stiff and heavy, but they fit mostly right and the dark fabric will hide the inevitable stains. Death by lycanthropic claws, however, is still on the table. " _Fifty dollars._ That's a hypothetical shift at the hypothetical job that I don't hypothetically have because I'm too busy babysitting werewolves."

"Shut up, Stiles," Erica mutters into his ribcage, but there is no real heat in her words. Somewhere by Stiles' left armpit, Isaac twitches and growls in his sleep; he is probably chasing dream-rabbits, as he has been banned from chasing real-rabbits after destroying too many gardens/flowerbeds/undeserving shrubberies. Mindlessly chasing Thumper—and the occasional Bambi—is a thing, apparently.

"Maybe you should take it up with Derek," Boyd suggests from the vicinity of Stiles knees, because Stiles has become a communal, slightly bony, human-shaped pillow for werewolves. This is also a thing. "He'll figure something out."

Despite Boyd's suggestion, Stiles does not "take it up" with Derek. Instead, he continues to bemoan his fate to the rest of the pack. Scott is sheepish—he's the reason for whatever the hell that gook on Stiles' Threadless shirt is—before he repeats Boyd almost verbatim; Allison gives Stiles a look that is her usual mixture of empathy and amusement; Lydia snorts and makes comments about "fate" and "having a legitimate excuse to upgrade his wardrobe" and "what do you mean you don't have a credit card"; Jackson executes his patented Douchebag Maneuver (which is a combination of a condescending eye roll, a nonchalant shrug, and a single snort of laughter at whichever poor, oh-isn't-your-suffering-amusing peon's misfortune he's privy to); while Danny looks at him uncertainly and says, "I don't mean to be rude, Stiles, but shouldn't you be talking to Derek about this?"

" _No_ ," Stiles says, with great emphasis. Then, "Why does everyone keep mentioning Derek? He's only stretched out the collar of my shirts, like, three or four times. It's a gross abuse of his super strength—I bet Superman didn't stretch out any of Lois Lane's collars—but in the grand scheme of my closet's slow demise, stretching only makes up a very small percentage. Derek is not the problem." Stiles pauses. "Mostly."

"If you don't want Derek to know," Danny says, his voice a double-edged Claymore of warm kindness and cold, hard reason, "then maybe you should stop talking about it?"

Stiles clams up so tightly after that all manner of bivalves would be jealous. Even if the werewolves filed their claws down on a daily basis, the destruction of Stiles' clothing is not something that can be controlled, so Stiles grudgingly classifies the problem as a non-issue. However, if Derek knew that Stiles had to sneak his destroyed wardrobe into a nearby convenience store dumpster, to avoid having his dad seeing whatever _mort du jour_ had been inflicted upon his clothes, Derek would make the non-issue a Real Issue (capital included for much needed emphasis). Besides, the only difficult part about said non-issue is occasionally explaining to his dad why he needs money to go buy new shirts/jeans every so often.

"I know you're not the most coordinated kid on the planet, but how many protruding nails can you possibly snag on?" his dad asks, unaware of his terrible pun. A thread of worry winds through his otherwise light tone. He still doesn't know about Stiles' double life—shape shifters, hunters, and magic, oh my!—and Stiles is wary of telling him the truth. Mostly, it has to do with his dad being reinstated as the sheriff of Beacon Hills, though a smaller part is about not being grounded for the entirety of his senior year.

Stiles very much wants to enjoy his senior year, something he thinks would be easier while not under house arrest. If his dad ever learned about the existence of the supernatural—and that Stiles had been keeping the truth from him for nearly two years—house arrest would be the least of his punishments. Stiles is waiting, wisely in his opinion, until he's in college to let that werewolf out of the bag.

"High school is more dangerous than you remember," Stiles quips avoidantly. "Besides, no shirt could contain so much awesome for too long without combusting. I mean, come on, have you seen my god-like pectorals and/or raging biceps lately?"

His dad just sighs and hands Stiles a fifty.

.

Things always seem to go the exact opposite way that Stiles wants them to go, and he doesn't know why he bothers to be surprised anymore. The universe is spiteful, cruel, and contrary, and if it can disappoint Stiles, it will, a working theory that Stiles believes to be on par with _gravity_. Case in point: Derek finds out about the clothes non-issue simply because Stiles doesn't want Derek to find out about the clothes non-issue.

It's the second to last Saturday before school starts, and Isaac is energetic despite the oppressive summer heat. He and Boyd are play-fighting on the prickly, parched grass—to Stiles, play-fighting still looks like a cage match minus the cage, plus claws and fangs and vicious snarling—while he, Erica, and Lydia are stretched out on an old striped falsa blanket, sipping on the lemonade Erica made from scratch. Nearby, Derek, Jackson, and Scott are laying heavy stone for a fire pit. It is a slow and argumentative process that is being overseen by Danny and Allison; it is entirely possible those two are the only reason the project hasn't devolved into a brawl.

Sprawled out like an octopus to prevent his sweat-sticky limbs from touching his torso, Stiles holds his glass of lemonade on his forehead and lets the condensation trickle down onto his skin. He is trying very, very hard to move as little as possible (read: trying very, very hard to generate as little heat as possible) when someone swipes the glass out of his hand. He tries to glare at the offender, but the bright afternoon sun mutates his glare into a squint.

"You're it," Boyd says.

Stiles doesn't even have the time to protest as Isaac's grip latches around his ankle and drags him off the blanket. The sudden movement rucks Stiles' shirt up to his armpits and the dry, brittle grass scratches the smooth skin of his back. Stiles opens his mouth to tell Isaac that he's too hot to simply exist, let alone tussle, when Isaac leans down and blows a powerful raspberry into the soft flesh of Stiles' belly. Instead of the protest he originally had, Stiles declares, "Oh, it is _on_ , wolf boy!"

The first time Stiles had been pulled into a pack play-fight, the wolves had been extremely gentle. Sure, Stiles had been rolled onto his back, pinned, and cuffed upside the head—he had stood no chance between Isaac, Erica, and Scott, all of whom had instinctively fixed their golden eyes on his weaker, more vulnerable form—but Stiles had emerged unscathed, free of blood and bruises.

That had slowly changed. The more often someone pulls Stiles into a play-fight, the more careless the wolves become; the more comfortable they become in their lycanthropy, the more they forget about their superior strength and speed. Cuts, bumps, and bruises aren't unusual, yet none of the wounds are intentional and, in all honesty, Stiles usually sees worse bumps from lacrosse, more severe cuts from his bloodthirsty and vicious textbooks, and darker bruises from the clumsiness created by the over-awareness he has of his body. Besides, the pack would never seriously hurt Stiles, even accidentally.

The same truth cannot be said for Stiles' clothes.

After being pulled off the falsa blanket, Stiles kicks his legs until Isaac is forced to let go of Stiles' ankle or be hit by a flailing, bony heel. Stiles rolls onto his side as Isaac pounces, landing in the space Stiles occupied a moment before. Undeterred, Isaac reaches out and grabs the front of Stiles' shirt—which is mostly bunched high on Stiles' chest—rather than wrap his hand around Stiles' bicep like usual. Isaac is almost completely wolfed out and eerily adorable as he playfully snaps his jaw in Stiles' face. Despite the adrenaline pumping through his body, Stiles laughs, quickly and breathlessly. When he stops, Stiles places both his hands in the center of Isaac's chest and his palms flat against Isaac's lean torso, preparing to push the werewolf away.

What happens next is an accident and, on any other day, Stiles' attempts to get away would have been ineffective. Normally, there would be no contest; when Stiles pushes and Isaac pulls, Stiles should have gone in the direction Isaac wanted him to go. But this time, a combination of factors—the cheap make of Stiles' cotton tee, the surprising amount of force both of them put into their opposing actions, and the supernatural sharpness of Isaac's claws—result in half of Stiles' shirt staying on his body while the other half stays in Isaac's fist.

The sound of shredding fabric is almost comically loud.

"Oops," Isaac says, entirely unapologetic, as Stiles, slightly winded from rolling onto his back harder than he planned, blurts, "Not again!"

Stiles isn't angry. He isn't even the tiniest bit annoyed. He's long since resigned himself to the various negative aspects that comes with the territory of being a human in a pack of werewolves: having almost no privacy, accepting that werewolves can forget what personal space means, knowing that he'll never enjoy leftovers again—leftovers don't exist in a pack of nine teenagers and one young adult, especially when six of those ten members are calorie-guzzling shape shifters—and being aware that none of his clothes are claw proof. Stiles lets out a subdued sigh, sits up, and surveys the (admittedly impressive) damage.

"Sorry," Isaac says, though it's more out of reflex than actual apology. Stiles jabs his knee into Isaac's side.

"Dick," Stiles snaps as he looks up from the tatters of his shirt. There's hardly a front anymore, just a collar with some short sleeves, a back, and a hem, so Stiles pulls the remains over his head and wrinkles it into a ball. (From the blanket, Erica releases an exaggerated and sharp wolf-whistle at his exposed chest. Stiles ignores her.) "This was supposed to be a total non-issue."

Isaac snorts. "Oh, is that why you were constantly complaining about—"

"Stiles?" Derek interrupts with a shout. Stiles tosses a look at the older man over his shoulder, watches as Derek straightens up from his crouch by the nearly complete pit. _Crap_ , Stiles thinks. "You okay?"

"I'm good," Stiles yells back as he struggles to his feet, hoping that Derek will shrug the incident off and return to hauling stones and glaring at Scott and Jackson. It is a vain and futile hope, however, and Derek jogs over with a concerned scowl on his face. Isaac's sly-eyed gaze darts between Derek and Stiles, and because Stiles has seen that look too many times to hope that it bodes well, he flicks Isaac's nose. "No," Stiles says. "Bad dog."

As soon as Stiles removes his hand from Isaac's face and shoves both fists into his jean pockets, Derek is beside him. He crowds into Stiles' space, places a rough hand against Stiles' bare stomach, noses the short hairs of Stiles' temple, and inhales deeply. Derek has abruptly burst Stiles' personal bubble like this before—all the wolves do—but the sudden proximity never fails to startle Stiles into complacency and acceptance.

_Also_ , a traitorous portion of Stiles' brain chirps, _Derek smells really, really freaking good._

After the first few times his personal space had become a little less personal, Stiles had asked Deaton about it. The older man explained to Stiles that werewolves could smell pain and stress just as easily as they could smell fear or happiness or arousal. As an alpha, Derek's instincts demanded that he assess a pack member's state when he believed they might have been hurt: physically or emotionally. At the time, Stiles had been more in shock about the fact that Derek considered him pack than at Derek's new odd and handsy ways.

Nevertheless, the logic behind Derek's actions doesn't soften the surprise. For as touchy-feely as the rest of the pack is, often manhandling other members (i.e., Stiles) into impromptu cuddle fests, Derek largely remains aloof and distant. In fact, Stiles has only seen Derek offer the comfort of his touch to the other pack members through brief and singular gestures—his approving hand on their shoulder, maybe, or the reassuring press of his cheek to the line of their jaw. Derek is more comfortable with touching Jackson, Isaac, Erica and Boyd than Allison, Scott, Lydia, and Danny.

Stiles is another area entirely. With Stiles, Derek is liberal. He will run his hands over Stiles' arms and chest; he will crowd Stiles' space and press the line of his body against Stiles'; he will bury his face in the curve of Stiles' neck and rub his scruffy cheeks against Stiles' throat until it turns red from beard burn. His touches are often as brief as the touches he would give any other pack member, but there are times when Derek latches onto Stiles—or sits close enough that their thighs are flush, or slings his burly arm around Stiles' shoulders, or curls his palm around the back of Stiles' neck—and does not let go.

(It had freaked Stiles out in the beginning. Peter had just betrayed them to the alpha pack and one of its members, an attractive and terrifying brute named Aiden, had thought it would be hysterical to break Stiles' arm in three places. Scott and Derek intervened before the fourth break and, as Scott drove them to the hospital, Derek kept one hand curved around Stiles' skull and the other on Stiles' unbroken wrist as he siphoned off the worst of the pain. It was surreal, but as far as strange werewolf behavior went—as most werewolf related issues went—Stiles swiftly got used to it.)

Derek's constant touches should bother Stiles. He knows that Derek considers him the most vulnerable member of the pack, and that this belief forces Derek to make sure he's all right more than anyone else. Yet instead of finding Derek's actions humiliating, Stiles finds them reassuring—and a tiny bit nerve-wracking.

This time, Derek's hand is on Stiles' stomach for the brief fraction of a second, but Stiles is still hyper-aware of the heat of Derek's palm and the way Derek's calluses drag across his skin. The sensations are enough to make Stiles' stomach do a backflip; Derek's proximity has always kicked adrenaline into Stiles' bloodstream. Even if fear isn't the reason Stiles' heart speeds up anymore—Stiles' brain understands that Derek is his alpha and that Derek would never hurt a pack member—Stiles resolutely ignores the real reason and decides that his gut has just never received the memo.

"You're fine," Derek mutters as he finally steps back, withdrawing his touch. His eyes rake down Stiles' body, as though to check for any injury that his sense of smell might not have noticed.

"Didn't I just say that?" Stiles snipes. His muscles had locked up the moment Derek crowded him and he shakes off the jittery feeling. Then, because as much as Derek's stare isn't like a physical touch— _lies!_ Stiles' brain screeches—he blurts, "What does a guy have to do to get a shirt around here?"

Over in the peanut gallery, Erica cups a hand around her mouth and boos loudly. Self-consciously, Stiles crosses his wiry arms across his chest tightly. She jerks a thumbs-down in Stiles' direction until Boyd elbows her in the side. "What?" she asks, slapping Boyd's huge bicep. "It's a nice view!"

Derek snorts and briefly touches Stiles' elbow to reclaim his attention. Even that simple touch sears through Stiles' nervous system, burning a path up his arm and down his spine. "Come on," Derek says, a second before he turns towards the house and starts to walk away.

Stiles gathers the rest of this t-shirt from Isaac—"Sorry," Isaac says again as he hands the shredded fabric over, fooling absolutely no one—before Stiles trots across the dry lawn to catch up to Derek. When he ducks into the house and closes the sliding glass door behind him, the cold air washes over him. He groans at how amazing the air-conditioning feels against his overheated skin.

Derek raises an eyebrow and the corners of his mouth tilt upwards incrementally. Stiles has known him long enough to know that the expression would be a full-blown smirk on someone less emotionally constipated.

"Don't look at me like that," Stiles says as he dunks the remains of his shirt into the trash. "Not everyone is a werewolf with amazing homeostatic mechanisms. That's why central air was invented."

Long used to Stiles' chatter, Derek merely grunts. "It isn't that hot out," he rebuts. Then he pauses and his eyes follow the path of Stiles' cerise, heat-induced flush, from his cheeks to his throat to his chest, before flickering back. "Are you sunburned?"

"What?" Stiles squawks as he refolds his arms across his chest. He is abruptly and terribly aware of how his nipples have pebbled in response to the cold air. "Why are you—I mean, no, there's no sunburn here, Lydia always slathers me in her sunscreen—you remember what happened last time we were at the beach and I forgot?—and I'm pretty sure that stuff is SPF 10,000. I could probably walk on the surface of the sun and be protected."

Derek looks at him and Stiles really, really hates how his heart thunders against his rib cage. He also dislikes the way Derek reaches out and presses the back of his hand against Stiles' sternum. Stiles doesn't know if Derek is trying to gauge how feverish the heat rising off Stiles' skin feels or if he thinks he can slow Stiles' erratic heartbeat with a touch.

Spoiler alert: When Derek touches him, it is not conducive to a decelerated heart rate.

"Okay," Derek says when he peels his hand from Stiles' skin.

"Yeah," Stiles croaks.

"It's just..."

"Don't worry about it." Stiles clears his throat. "I get it. Well, I get it as much as I can get it. You're the werewolf boss—making sure I'm okay is your alpha instinct thing."

"My alpha instinct thing." The line of Derek's shoulders stiffens and his mouth twists into a grimace. He looks strangely unhappy. Stiles is about to tell him about what Deaton once said, to explain what he meant, to ease the strange tension in Derek's body, when Derek averts his eyes and mutters, "You still need a shirt."

Derek turns on his heel and walks out of the enormous kitchen, effectively shutting down their conversation. Stiles is far too used to Derek's abrupt behavior to do more than stick his tongue out at Derek's back; the action may be juvenile, but it does make Stiles feel better.

Stiles follows Derek into the huge, shoe-cluttered entryway and up the stairs to the second floor. They pass one of the bathrooms, Isaac's Spartan room, and the empty bedroom before entering the master suite at the end of the hall. Stiles is so focused on the heavy patch of sweat between Derek's shoulder blades, the heather gray material soaked dark from the exertion of moving huge stones, that he doesn't notice where Derek has led him until they're there.

Stiles has been inside the master bedroom only once before, back when floors were bare and the drywall and plywood were still exposed, but even after the second level had been finished, Stiles rarely ventured up the stairs. He has no need. Occasionally, Stiles will have to drag Isaac out of bed—Isaac would sleep all day if he could—and sometimes Stiles will use the bathroom when the two on the main level are being hogged, but if Stiles is in the house, he is either on the main or lower level. The pack tends to congregate in the public arenas of the house, like the living room, the kitchen, or the unfinished patio.

The fact that Stiles is rarely on the second floor, in combination with the fact that Derek's bedroom door is always explicitly closed, means that Stiles has never seen the finished product.

Like the main level and the rest of the second—sans the tiled kitchen, laundry room, and bathrooms—the floor of Derek's room is a dark, knotted, and polished wood. The walls are painted a warm, light gray that is washed colorless by the sunlight; the curtains are white and spill onto the clean floor; there's a loveseat with plush black upholstery in the corner by one of the tall windows, next to a side table that has a precariously piled stack of books with worn spines; and all of the heavy and masculine furniture, except for the low, simple, and steel bedframe, is made from a dark gray wood.

If it weren't for the clothes spilling out of the hamper by the closet and the unmade bed with its inviting nest of light cotton sheets and massive duvet, Derek's room could have been pulled out of home decor magazine.

"Wow," Stiles says as he steps into Derek's bedroom. His eyes dart from the bright yellow throw crumpled in the loveseat—Stiles remembers Lydia buying that and an unholy amount of decorative pillows as Derek's housewarming gift—to the wall on his right, which is decorated with an insane number of stainless steel picture frames.

The first picture Stiles looks at is a blurred image of Scott, Stiles, and Boyd from that spring, and it takes Stiles a moment to find the memory that matches. The weather had just turned warm and—for whatever reason—Boyd had stolen his younger brother's water guns so they could wage mock war in the backyard. The candid photo captured the aftermath of their battle; Stiles' soaked clothes hung off his bony shoulders, Scott's mouth was wide open as though mid-shout, and Boyd's eyes were angled so they created light spots around his face. Despite the quality and their strange poses, it was obvious how much fun the three of them were having.

Stiles remembers that Erica and Jackson had watched them from the patio, alternately encouraging and goading them, but he doesn't remember either taking pictures.

There are many others. Boyd and Erica entwined on the couch; Allison and Lydia planting the pale blue hydrangea bushes in the front of the house; Scott, Jackson, Isaac, and Danny in their lacrosse gear; Isaac, Lydia, and Stiles playing a game of Chinese checkers; Erica painting Stiles' toenails; Scott with his one arm slung around Allison's waist, the other wrapped around Isaac; the entire pack crowding the dining room table in celebration of Isaac's birthday; and one of Stiles in his favorite red hoodie, leaning against the driver's side door of his Jeep as he pulls a face at someone outside the camera's view.

Stiles knows that he should be more surprised by seeing such obvious sentimental tokens from Derek, yet he isn't. He really, really isn't.

"Did you take these?" Stiles asks, peering at a picture of the girls from their junior prom several months ago. Their dresses are drastically different, from gold (Erica) to cream (Allison) to deep plum (Lydia), but they're all wearing the same corsage, which had matched the boys' boutonnieres: lime green orchids in a bed of tiny violets and soft lilac. They had been a gift from Derek.

"Only a few," Derek replies gruffly.

Stiles glances at Derek over his shoulder; Derek's hazel eyes are as heavy as if they were tinged crimson. "Are you some sort of stealth photographer?" he continues, flashing a weak grin. There is something too serious about the way Derek invited Stiles into his bedroom, about the way Derek looks at him as though he expects an answer Stiles can't give him yet. "Or is that one of your secret werewolf powers?"

In lieu of answering, Derek walks over to his hamper and says, "I haven't done laundry yet."

"S'okay," Stiles replies. He knows a change of subject when he sees one.

Derek sifts through a collection of dark t-shirts and stone-washed denim before he pulls a charcoal gray, short sleeve v-neck. He sniffs the fabric, shrugs, and tosses it to Stiles, who manages to catch it even without fumbling too much.

Unconsciously, Stiles brings the shirt to his nose as well and inhales. It smells like Derek's detergent, the subtle teakwood and eucalyptus cologne Danny bought Derek for his last birthday, and the inoffensive traces of an average day's worth of wear. When he pulls it over his head, Stiles is proud to note that his shoulders are the same breadth as Derek's, even if his chest and biceps aren't as developed in the muscular department. He runs a hand over the soft fabric as though to smooth the creases and flashes a real smile at Derek.

"Well?" Stiles asks. He throws his arms out akimbo and exaggeratedly thrusts a hip to one side. "Is it my color?"

Derek's answering look is as dry as the Gobi desert, or the grass in his backyard.

It does not occur to Stiles then—or when he and Derek go back downstairs to finish the fire pit, or when he gorges himself on S'mores and gets marshmallow guts all over his hands, or when he speeds back home to avoid breaking curfew—that Derek didn't have to give him one of his shirts. As an alpha, it would have been within his rights to tell Isaac to give Stiles one of his shirts; and if Derek had given Stiles one of his shirts because he wanted to be the one to clothe Stiles, he didn't have to bring Stiles up to his previously 'DO NOT TRESPASS' abode to give Stiles said shirt. There was something unusual about the exchange that should be ringing warning bells in Stiles' head.

Instead of over-analyzing the situation, when Stiles gets home, he toes out of his shoes, wriggles out of his jeans, and collapses onto his small bed wearing nothing but his boxers and Derek's borrowed shirt. Then he twines his fingers in the hem and steadily breathes in the lingering traces of Derek until he falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Despite life's disposition to throw him the strangest curveballs—i.e., werewolves existing and Scott becoming one—and reality occasionally tempering his outlook—his mother's death and being kidnapped by geriatric hunters without ethics—Stiles remains an optimist 87% of the time. However, he really should have known better than to believe the Clothes Thing (now capitalized) would remain a Non-Issue (also now capitalized); if there's anything he's learned in the time he's known Derek, it's that Derek has the uncanny ability to do things he thinks he has to do, without informing second parties that are directly affected by his actions, that he's going to do them.

For example, the Batman shirt Stiles had reluctantly put back on the shelf when he went shopping the Sunday before last is waiting for him when he returns to the Hale house, two days after the incident with Isaac's claws. Stiles approaches it with caution and eyes the fluorescent pink stick-it attached to the fabric. Stiles' name has been written on the small square of paper with a dying sharpie; it's Derek's handwriting, easily recognizable by the broad and calligraphic letters.

"What is this?" Stiles asks Boyd as he points a very accusatory finger at the aforementioned shirt. The shirt is folded neatly on the granite of the kitchen counter, as though the shop girl from before had come in and put it there. Warily, Stiles glances at the pantry as though said shop girl will pop out and stab him with the chef's knife if he dares to touch it and ruin the perfectly aligned edges.

"A shirt," Boyd answers. His voice is dry enough to start a forest fire. Obviously, Derek is a terrible influence.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Stiles says. His brain is already searching for an answer— _shirt gnomes!_ , it screeches—and he swears he can feel his blood pressure rising. "What I mean is, why is there a shirt lying here with my name on it?"

Boyd shrugs as he pulls a can of Mountain Dew from the fridge, pops it open, and takes a swallow. He has always been a quiet guy, even after Derek's bite, and he is often the most non-confrontational and neutral member of the pack. Stiles appreciates and depends on Boyd's steadfastness and stoicism normally, but these traits are often unhelpful when it comes to solving non-life-threatening mysteries, like what Isaac bought him for their Secret Santa.

"Does my distress mean nothing to you?"

"Are you sure that isn't your shirt?" Boyd replies. He is nonchalant as he leans back against the kitchen counter. "You're the guy in the pack who wears that kind of stuff."

"Can you not hear me?" Stiles' voice skips an octave up into shrill. "Are your super-sensitive wolfy ears clogged today or do you just have selective hearing? Because I said it once, I'll say it again: This is not my shirt."

"I think Derek bought it, to replace the one Isaac ripped." Boyd shrugs again, as though Derek buying Stiles shirts is an everyday occurrence. Then, with a sidelong glance over the top of the aluminum soda can that Stiles cannot interpret, "Don't you like it? I thought Batman was your thing."

"He is," Stiles says. "He is very much my thing."

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem? Dude, the problem is dark and broody and sour and likes to do whatever the freak it wants and starts with a 'd' and ends with an 'erek'." Stiles pauses to take a calming breath; breathing exercises are less of a thing and more of a necessity when werewolves are involved. "Do you know where I can find him?"

Boyd regards Stiles with another unreadable look before he answers, "Downstairs, the last time I saw him. He's finishing the bar cabinets."

With one last glare at the shirt, Stiles exits the kitchen and takes the stairs down to the basement. Despite the stagnant heat late August always brings to northern California, the lower level is cool enough to warrant a sweater or one of the fleece tie blankets Erica had roped the rest of the pack into making. Stiles immediately regrets his seersucker shorts and simple tank top; when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he hisses as his bare feet hit the icy, polished concrete floor.

"Stiles?" Derek says from behind the bar. Only the spiky top of his head is visible over the marble countertop. "Scott left with Allison and Isaac over an hour ago. I think they went on a date."

"I know," Stiles says as he grabs the throw off the back of the couch and tucks it around his shoulder like an impromptu cape. It's the one Danny and Jackson had made; it is predominantly blue, and has small red, yellow, and purple lizards skittering across the fabric. "I had to help Scott pick out flowers earlier."

Derek stands up as Stiles plops down on one of the stools on the other side of the counter. He opens the small refrigerator, grabs a bottle of summer ale, pops the top off with a claw, and takes a swig. When Stiles grabs it and takes a quick drink himself, even though he is still undecided about the taste. Derek allows the transgression; when Stiles goes for a second swallow, however, Derek swipes the beer back out of Stiles' hand.

"No," Derek says. The, 'You're still a minor and your father is still the sheriff, and I don't need another arrest on my record,' is unspoken. Stiles purses his lips, but doesn't try to steal another sip.

The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable, even as Stiles contemplates the best way to start the impending conversation. Derek leans up against the edge of the counter and drinks his beer while Stiles takes in the wood dust on Derek's black shirt and the smear of glue on Derek's forearm. Months and months ago, when Stiles figured out that Derek planned to renovate the house by himself, Stiles had been skeptical. Sure, the contracted construction crew had installed the house's framework, the plumbing, and the heating and air conditioning but, per Derek's insane request, nothing else had been done. The house had been as unlivable as its burned, skeletal predecessor.

Then Derek had laid the wood floors for the main level and the second level, tiled all five bathrooms, installed all the kitchen appliances as well as the washer and dryer, polished the concrete on the lower level, did all the cabinetry, built the ground level porch and patio, and planted a few apple trees. He did all this with a speed and efficiency that made the home makeover teams on television look unprofessional and sloppy.

"I did contract work and landscaping in New York," Derek answered simply when Stiles' curiosity finally got the better of him. Then, with a shrug, "It was one of the only jobs I could get after I dropped out."

The pack had helped with the renovations, to a degree. They had painted the rooms, stained the deck, and planted blue hydrangea bushes all around the house. They went to the furniture store to pick out a couple sofas for the main level and basement living rooms, a large dining room table set, and other miscellaneous items like the coffee table and shoe rack. (For the entire excursion, Lydia and Danny used their good looks for evil and terrorized the poor salesman in the guise of bartering. Stiles had watched them in awe, and Derek had gotten 23% off his entire purchase.) Finally and most importantly, the pack brought the outside world in with the remnants of their everyday lives: the battered knick-knacks on the mantelpiece and the lacrosse gear in entryway closet, the hand-tied fleece blankets and favorite DVDs, the mass collection of shoes in the foyer.

There are certain things in the house that are still unfinished—like the downstairs bar and the basement-level second bedroom turned weight room—but Derek chisels away at every project slowly and surely. It has been over a year since Derek began his repairs, but the effort means the Hale house is slowly turning into a home.

When Derek finishes his beer and sets the bottle in the sink, to be rinsed out and recycled later, Stiles decides to just get down to it. It's always better to just rip off the proverbial band-aid, especially when Derek is involved.

"So," Stiles segues gracelessly. "You bought me a Batman shirt?"

Derek's eyes flicker down to the shadowed gap between the edges of the blanket, where Stiles' cotton-covered chest is exposed. His mouth tightens into a microscopic moue, as though he expected to see the aforementioned garment instead, before he asks, "You didn't like it?"

"Dude," Stiles replies, "I freaking love Batman. You know those essays we have to write for standardized tests with those shitty, generic topics, like, who is your hero? I answer Bruce Wayne every time. Yeah, the Caped Crusader is not the problem."

"Problem," Derek repeats. He has long since developed the ability to suss through Stiles' ramblings and pick out the actual topic. Depending on the day, Stiles either wants to applaud Derek or be immensely annoyed by him.

Today, Stiles settles on the latter.

"Well, maybe not a _problem_ , per say, more like—like a—small misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding," Derek echoes.

It takes most of Stiles' willpower not to bash his head against the bar countertop. Instead, he inhales deeply, and then very deliberately places his palms on the marble. He looks away from Derek's deepening glower and tightening jaw, focuses on the upward curve of Derek's left ear, and says mostly firmly, "Derek, you can't just buy me a shirt."

Even with his eyes focused on Derek's ear, Stiles sees Derek's stubborn eyebrows drop sharply, as though to say, "I can and I did."

"I appreciate the gesture," Stiles continues irritably, his swiftly rising ire overriding his inability to look Derek in the eye, "but I don't need you to buy me clothes. I am very capable of buying my own. So, oh alpha my alpha, can you please take it back to the store?"

If there was a vague trace of amusement on Derek's face a moment before, the last of it is wiped away by a dark, hard scowl. It's the sourwolf expression Derek adopts when Stiles (or another pack member) crosses one of those lycan lines Derek has drawn in the proverbial sand. In the past, it had been a common enough occurrence; that specific glare, however, has become increasingly rare. The more the pack learns to function as a family unit, rather than a random mash-up of distrustful and hormonal teenagers, the less often Derek pulls a sourwolf.

Yet, while there is always room for error in a pack ten strong, Stiles is reasonably certain that he's the one who gets sourwolfed most often, these days.

"No," Derek refuses.

"Come on!" Stiles throws his hands in the air—the fleece blanket nearly falls off his shoulders—and looks upwards as though pleading for divine intervention. The gesture is reminiscent of a parent dealing with a recalcitrant child, or Stiles handling Scott in sophomore year. "It's not like this is the first time something like this has happened!"

"What?" Derek snaps, as he leans forward across the bar counter, until his face is only several inches from Stiles'. Stiles knows that his immediate and physical presence is supposed to be daunting, but for as long as Derek has been able to wade through Stiles' bullshit, Stiles has been immune to Derek's brand of intimidation.

"The ripping thing!" Stiles retorts, the words high-pitched and whip-fast, even as he inwardly curses his brain-to-mouth filter. "With the claws and the fangs and whatever!"

At this, Derek lets out an uncharacteristic and borderline animalistic snarl, the corners of his mouth peeling back from his thickening canines as his eyes bleed red. The shift makes Stiles jump in his seat and it sends a sobering spike of adrenaline through his system. Though Stiles always forgets how quickly a situation can devolve when werewolves are involved, he never forgets how in control Derek is of his own lycanthropy; Derek's transformations are nearly always intentional.

Still, it's happened often enough with his pack-mates that Stiles knows not to give into his own anger, no matter how much it sparks beneath the surface of his skin.

"Derek," Stiles says as he forces himself to pull back, to make his tense shoulders relax even if he doesn't feel an ounce of calm. Werewolves are more aggressive once they've shifted, and Stiles knows from experience that he should not give into his own anger, no matter how violently it sparks beneath the surface of his skin. "Derek, this is just one of those things."

"You don't get it, do you?" Derek scoffs, his syllables crisp despite his transformed jaw. Rationally, Stiles knows that Derek isn't mocking him, but he bristles at the words regardless. "If this was a problem, if the others were hurting you—"

"I never said they were!"

"—then you should have told me and I would have—"

"Would have what?" Stiles spits, each syllable like acid despite his attempts to calm down. "So some of my clothes have been lost in the line of duty. I replace them. It happens. It's not like I can wrap myself in kevlar, and you know, even if I could, I've seen you rip through _a car door_ —"

"Stiles, you can't joke about—"

"Derek!" Stiles all but shrieks, his voice rising with each syllable. "Just take the freaking shirt back!"

If it were another wolf, Stiles would have been pinned to the cold concrete floor and been on the wrong end of a snarl. But Derek—controlled and practiced—shows the same cautious restraint Stiles had exerted a moment before, and straightens his spine and crosses his burly arms over his chest. His fangs sink back into his gums and, though the crimson sheen in his eyes fades, his irises are no less bright. Finally, with measured consonants and vowels, Derek decisively declares, "I am not going to take the shirt back, Stiles."

"You're freaking impossible, you know that?"

Derek's nostrils flare and he juts his jaw out stubbornly, as though returning the shirt is the last thing he will ever do. In fact, it seems as though he might buy more shirts, just to be contrary. Stiles prays to the universe that he doesn't have a whole new wardrobe come morning. He doesn't know if he would be able to handle the level of monochrome Derek would inevitably purchase.

"Fine," Stiles mutters darkly as he jumps off the stool. Derek continues to try to silently power stance Stiles into submission and, with a sinking inevitability, Stiles realizes that this is going to be one of those fights. "Don't take it back. I don't care. At all."

_Besides,_ Stiles thinks as he stomps emphatically back up the stairs. _Someone would probably just bleed on it, anyway._

.

The problems Derek and Stiles have often stem from the same source: pack conduct.

In the beginning, in those first fragile and fractured months when Derek didn't trust anyone and Stiles thought he knew best, Stiles and Derek tried their hardest to steamroll the other into seeing things their way. Considering how bullheaded both of them could be, that strategy rarely worked.

After numerous situations blew up in their faces—both figuratively and literally—Stiles and Derek tentatively learned to compromise. Stiles always had a plan which, when combined with Derek's experience and sometimes intimate understanding of the supernatural, helped greatly during the various crises that plagued the pack: Jackson's brief stint as a kanima, Gerard Argent's no holds barred hunter vendetta, Peter's hidden agenda, the fight with the alpha pack, the return of Deaton's insane coven, and the territory dispute with the eight strong pack that moved into a town just northwest of Beacon Hills.

(In truth, Stiles doesn't know how he—and his GPA—survived his junior year intact.)

Yet, no matter how well Stiles and Derek function together in a crisis, they still manage to clash in more peaceful and domestic settings. They have argued about many things:  
 • whether or not Stiles is allowed to run with the pack on full moons (he does, when he isn't feeling lazy)  
 • if Stiles can pay for his share of food on Takeout Tuesdays (Derek pays the full tab)  
 • if the bedroom next to Derek's master suite is Stiles' if/when he moves into the house (Derek and the rest of the pack call it his, but Stiles refuses to think about living in place where the only thing separating him and Derek is a meager wall made of wood, insulation, and plaster; it makes Stiles' stomach twist with an ineffable emotion)  
 • and if Derek can buy Stiles whatever whenever he damn well please (the conclusion of which remains to be seen).

"You do know you're not going to win this one, right?" Lydia tells him the next day, her voice an uncaring and distracted drawl. "You never win the money arguments."

It's Tuesday morning, the day after Stiles fought with Derek. He, Lydia, and Erica are inside the house, resting on the huge wrap around couch that dominates the main level living room. Lydia is in one of the corners, her feet tucked daintily underneath her as she critically buffs her fingernails; Stiles is sprawled across several cushions on one side, his face buried in the cream-colored suede fabrics; and Erica is by Stiles' hip, squinting at two vials of polish as she tries to determine if she wants to paint her toenails _penny talk_ copper or _carry on_ purple.

"Not true!" Stiles interjects indignantly. At the same time, Erica snorts, "So true."

"It happens every single time," Lydia continues, scrutinizing her nails. "Derek wants things one way, you want them another. If it has to deal with how you interact with the pack, you win. If it has to deal with how Derek interacts with you, he wins."

Stiles starts, "That's—"

"So true," Erica finishes.

"I don't know why you insist on denying his gift," Lydia continues, as though she were talking about something as simple and easy as the weather or advanced mathematics. "He provides for the rest of the pack financially, if they need it. You are not an exemption. Of course, he could be overcompensating because he refuses to provide for you in other aspects of your relationship."

"Wait," Stiles says in confusion, lifting his head from the cushions as the tail-end of her sentence whips through his brain. "What do you mean—"

The rest of Stiles' sentence is cut off by a very familiar, very aggravated roar from the kitchen. "Can't a man enjoy his goddamned panini in peace?" Jackson bellows.

Stiles' confusion at what Lydia means by 'other aspects of [his and Derek's] relationship' is instantly and inanely replaced by the fact that Jackson somehow _found_ a panini press in the black hole that is the kitchen. (Since Derek finished the cabinets and deemed the massive space open for business, because, the pack has lost three toasters, various utensils, and a wok. Stiles personally thinks that the missing items are due to the fact that Erica is breaking these quote lost unquote items as she is a horrible, horrible cook, but since Stiles values his life and limbs, he keeps this observation to himself.) Then he is amazed that Jackson actually made himself a sandwich, instead of bullying Danny, Allison, or Boyd to make it for him, which is his usual _modus operandi._

_Alright then,_ Stiles thinks as Jackson slams something down on the kitchen counter. _My Adderall has **not** kicked in yet._

Lydia scoffs at Jackson, and replies, "Then stop eavesdropping!" She does not bother to raise her voice nor look away from her shiny, shiny nails. Her disinterest somehow makes Stiles' thoughts loop back from paninis to its original starting point. He may not be a werewolf, but he can still be a dog with a bone.

"Lydia," Stiles prompts. "What do you mean by _other_ aspects?"

"I am not responsible for the pile of panini vomit that will appear if this conversation continues!" Jackson all but shrieks. Even when his syllables evoke a supernatural yowl, it's hard not to think of him as a diva.

"Stiles," Lydia says, completely ignoring Jackson's continued protests ringing from the kitchen. "If you haven't figured out by now, then it's not my place to tell you."

Lydia's voice is as aloof as it ever is and her dispassionate mask is still firmly in place, but her green eyes flicker upwards to meet Stiles'. Over the years, Stiles has become very adept at reading Lydia Martin's body language. Even if he doesn't carry a torch for her anymore—that flame is match-sized, now, and has been firmly delegated to friendship since she saved Jackson—Stiles knows that the small glance speaks encyclopedic volumes. She might as well be saying, "I'm so sorry, honey bear, but this is something that you need to figure out on your own. Do you want a hug in place of a better explanation?"

Stiles never claimed to be one hundred percent accurate on the translation.

"Is this about the pack mom joke?" Stiles asks. "Because I am completely aware of its existence." He pauses, squinting as though it will help him discern an answer. "You are talking about the pack mom joke, right?"

A little less than a year ago, when the alphas arrived in Beacon Hills in the early fall, at the same time Gerard made his reappearance and Peter started acting more shifty than usual, Stiles found himself providing physical comfort to the rag-tag and tenuously strung together pack. At first, said comfort had been little more than a hand on the shoulder or sitting side-by-side. These small gestures were by-products of the immense stress and the time Stiles and the others were forced to spend together; eventually, those touches somehow supernova'd into lingering hugs, cuddling on the couch, and afternoon naps featuring Stiles, the Human Pillow.

Stiles was less surprised than he knew he should have been. He wants to say that his fanatical research of wolf pack dynamics gave him a workable, if fuzzy, translation of werewolf behavior, and that prepared it him for just about any situation. He also understood that the simple and basic power of touch to bring comfort was neither intrinsically human or werewolf, yet fundamental to both, and Stiles was willing to give that kind of physical reassurance. This, coupled with his propensity to protect those he considered his—a category which violently extended from his dad, Scott, and Lydia to include Derek, the sour pack kids, and even Jackson during the chaos of that first semester—had lead Isaac to jokingly call him 'pack mom'.

To be completely and utterly honest, Stiles rather liked the moniker. It reminded him of his own mother, before the cancer slowly stole her energy and vibrancy. She always touched Stiles or held him; the gestures embarrassed him and made him squirm as he got older, but they never failed to make him secretly happy and safe. So yeah, Stiles may indignantly screech, "Why can't Derek be pack mom? I want to be pack dad!" or "Can't we both be pack dads? All hail non-heteronormativity!", but if he can make anyone feel a fraction of what his mother made him feel, Stiles considers his role—all labels aside—a success.

"Right?" Stiles tries, one more time. He refuses to acknowledge the desperate strain in his tone.

"Sure," Lydia responds after a beat, and turns back to her nails. With her face turned away and her body completely relaxed into the couch, Stiles can be sure of two things: that he either missed the point completely, or that he nailed it on the head.

Stiles decides to go with the latter. After all, what else could she be talking about?

"I'm going outside," Jackson announces tetchily as he exits the kitchen, an icy, blue-eyed scowl on his face. He has a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and an open can of Dew in the other. "Christ, all I wanted was some fucking lunch, and what do I get? _The fucking View._ "

Jackson complains loudly all the way to the unfinished patio, where a few deep wicker chairs with criminally soft cushions have taken up residence. He tries to slam the sliding glass door shut behind him, but the only sound it makes as it closes behind him is a soft _snick_.

"Seriously though," Erica says as she picks up the copper nail polish and shakes it. "Why are you making such a big deal out of this? Derek practically keeps the rest of us—he feeds us and keeps a home for us—I mean, Isaac and Allison literally live here—and it isn't like he can't afford it, so why the fuss?"

Erica blatantly ignores the fact that Derek's wealth comes from several hefty insurance claims, life and home alike, and the inheritance left behind by a dozen dead family members and the generations that came before them. Compounded, the money is a seven figure pie; yet any way Stiles slices it, the cost of Derek's wealth came at too steep a price, no matter how well off he is financially.

"Because it's not about whether or not he can afford a stupid t-shirt," Stiles explains. With a deep sigh, he turns his face back to the cushions and unsuccessfully tries to bury his face into the softness. "This is about him being so, so... you know?"

"If I knew what you were talking about, sure," Erica says, flippant.

Stiles thinks about the shirt. Nobody has touched it since yesterday and it's still perfectly folded on the kitchen countertop. Since Stiles is a firm believer in ignoring the problem until it goes away, he's going to pretend that it's not there until either Derek caves and returns it, or (and this is much more likely) someone else claims it as their own just to end the madness.

It's only a matter of time, really.

"Stop moping and get up," Erica commands. Then, because Stiles is surrounded by cold and unfeeling pack-mates who never sympathize with how exceedingly difficult his life is, Erica digs one of her very bony elbows into the wing of Stiles' scapula and says, "Now. I need you to tell me if this color makes my toes look stubby—and remember, I can tell when you're lying."

.

It's about seven on Take-Out Tuesday, which means the pack gathers at the house and Allison spends at least ten minutes on the phone with Mrs. Liao, the owner of the Chinese restaurant they order from every week. Inevitably, everyone's order is the same as the week before, but that doesn't stop someone from forgetting their side of brown rice, or that they wanted extra shrimp with their lo mein.

"And the full side of cream cheese wontons," Allison says. "Yes, full side. No, just one. Yes, that's everyth—wait, sorry—Jackson, you're getting the pork dumplings, Isaac already ordered the dandan noodles—well, maybe if you ask _nicely_ this time he'll actually share—"

It is Boyd and Erica's turn to take the Camaro into town to pick up their enormous order; the errand requires more than a single pair of hands, considering how many cartons of Chinese cuisine there are. (Stiles has long since stopped being in awe of the mountain of food the pack can devour as a unit.) Still, when Derek reaches into his wallet, pulls out a small wad of twenties, and counts out the total plus tip, Stiles forces himself to look away.

The shirt isn't about the money—and neither is the food, really—but even though the money isn't the problem, this doesn't mean that Derek's refusal to let Stiles pay for his share doesn't annoy him. Being unable to contribute, or having an unfair balance of power, leaves of the sour taste of inequality in Stiles' mouth, nevermind that the rest of the pack receives the same treatment, and that none of them have the same problem that Stiles does.

During the wait, Stiles manages to avoid Derek by wrangling Danny and Lydia into a conversation about their upcoming classes. While the rest of the pack has either already graduated (Boyd), dropped out (Isaac) or taken it easy (Erica and Scott), the rest of them have a demanding mix of AP and honors classes. Stiles can only hope that his senior year is not filled with as many supernatural shenanigans as his junior year was.

When Erica and Boyd return, the pack immediately crowds around the enormous dining room table, opening the brown paper bags and pulling the contents out. It's chaos; everyone tries to talk over everyone else, there are too many limbs reaching across the table, and, in the mad shuffle as they find their seats, Stiles finds himself in his usual chair on the corner. Scott is to his immediate right while Derek sits at the head of the table on his left.

He and Derek exchange a look. As with all of their previous arguments, they have an unspoken truce that demands that they not to get into any sort of debate over dinner. This translates into Derek chomping on his szechuan chicken with a little more gusto than usual while Stiles avoids making eye contact with him, as he distractedly tears all three of his pilfered cream cheese wontons into more pieces than usual.

They would have made it through the meal without incident if not for Isaac. Isaac, who loves his spicy dandan, but is incapable of making it through the entire bowl without getting up one or three times to refill his glass in order to soothe the burn. Stiles barely notices when Isaac gets up and heads into the kitchen for his first refill, as he is trying to convince Erica to give him some of her lemon chicken.

"Hey," Isaac says as he returns, milk clinging to the upper bow of his lip. "I was wondering about that Batman shirt on the counter. Do I wanna know?"

" _No,_ " Stiles and Derek snap in eerie and irritated unison. There must be something hard in Stiles' eyes—or it might be the figurative red of Derek's glare—that prevents anyone around the suddenly silent table from saying anything. Even Jackson, who loves to antagonize Stiles and Derek when they're fighting, remains quiet.

"Okay then," Isaac mutters and plops back into his chair. "I guess I already have my answer."


End file.
